"Forgive me, forgive me," cried the young man, clasping his hands.

"Why should you ask me to forgive you, Foedor? Is not your love
genuine?"

"Yes, yes, genuine but hopeless."

"Why hopeless? Does not my father love you as a son?" said Vaninka.

"Oh, what do you mean?" cried Foedor. "Do you mean that if your father
will bestow your hand upon me, that you will then consent--?"

"Are you not both noble in heart and by birth, Foedor? You are not
wealthy, it is true, but then I am rich enough for both."

"Then I am not indifferent to you?"

"I at least prefer you to anyone else I have met."

"Vaninka!" The young girl drew herself away proudly.

"Forgive me!" said Foedor. "What am I doing? You have but to order: I
have no wish apart from you. I dread lest I shall offend you. Tell me
what to do, and I will obey."

"The first thing you must do, Foedor, is to ask my father's consent."

"So you will allow me to take this step?"

"Yes, but on one condition."